Ode to the cubical wall
so tall and so gray
It hides the world,
the sun, the rain,
life outside this day

Ode to the second cup of
coffee that so
quickly is out
You bring new life, energy

before leaving me without

Ode to the music of MOG
which plays in my ear
Knocking out sound
of others conversations
allowing me to disappear

Ode to the florescent lights
so nasty on my skin
bringing new resolve
to moisturize
and cut back on the gin

Ode to the coming paycheck
so sweet to my account
if it wasn’t for you,
dear bills and debt,
this life I could surmount

It was a familiar feeling, one I can easily conjure up in my mind. Not until I was leaving did I realize how long it’s actually been that the four of us where together in the same house. What was it, 1995? Was I married back then? Did Dani have to wear a bra back then? Did Kim have kids? Was I battling gray hair?

My sister, my mother, my cousin and I sat drinking sprite infused juice (cough) while taking copious amounts of photos and rocking the baby to sleep. It was a familiar scene even though I can’t place when that would have ever happened. My sister lived in Tuscan Arizona five of the last six years. My cousin is only now old enough to be a “person” off to college. My mother lives even further, back in Houston, near the small town my sister and I grew up in. And I? Well, I tend to never sit still for very long. So when realization hits and I’m sitting there laughing about stories from childhood, I forget how rare this event truly is. Technology makes it possible to connect, airplanes make it possible to travel, time allows us the opportunity but life, that bugger, gets in the way so often. Tonight, not traffic nor rain nor deadlines could prevent what the long-over-due gathering of women: women from my family.

We laughed and joked about being parents, about marriage, about college and boyfriends and love. We talked about the children, about life. We called each other out on past mistakes and forgive when someone farts. The scene could’ve been straight out of the book “The Red Tent” but with less bleeding and less hay bails. I came to understand, during the short hour drive home, how precious that time was. How rare, how familiar, how ancient the gathering of women from a family. The miles and years that separate us hold little tenacity over the truth of family.